


two hearts, one beat

by myefflorescence



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Pianist, Art, Character Study, Dancing, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Gentle Kissing, Inspired by Music, Kissing, Pianist!Tsukishima, Rare Pairings, References to Canon, Romance, Short & Sweet, Slow Build, Slow Romance, ballerina!yachi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:27:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23632348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myefflorescence/pseuds/myefflorescence
Summary: he loves the piano, she loves ballet. in a way, they were both birds of a feather. // 23.02.20
Relationships: Tsukishima Kei & Yachi Hitoka, Tsukishima Kei/Yachi Hitoka
Comments: 5
Kudos: 85





	two hearts, one beat

Every day, at six-thirty in the morning sharp, Tsukishima Kei shows up at the studio.

Hitoka knows this because she has been observing him for quite some time now – a little habit that stemmed out of pure curiosity when he was first introduced as the company’s newly-recruited pianist. Every day, at six-thirty in the morning sharp, Tsukishima Kei shows up at the studio with a cup of coffee in his hands and a pair of headphones nestled dutifully around his neck, always taken off before he comes in to greet the receptionist. It’s hard not to notice when their morning class starts at eight and he arrives even earlier than the dancers themselves, losing only to Yachi Hitoka by half an hour because she’s always the first one he sees when he walks through that door, the first person he actually talks to in the day.

She remembers their first meeting as clear as if it just happened yesterday, strained and a little awkward because he had walked into the middle of her vigorously banging a pointe shoe against the wall, its sound echoing throughout the spacious room. The minute that followed was filled with nothing but dead silence between them as she stared at him, dumbfounded, and stopped what she was doing altogether with her hand still hovering mid-air, eyes wide as a saucer.

He looked equally taken aback, though, and whatever expression she had made then must’ve been pretty funny because he started grinning – a short, slight lift on the corner of his lips that made him both smug and intimidating at the same time – and told her she looked ridiculous.

Flushing a deep red at the embarrassment, Hitoka had barely managed to stammer out that she was only breaking into her new shoes, launch into a ramble on how it was a completely normal thing for ballerinas to do and not because she was a maniac, she swore – before he cut her off in a flat, nonchalant tone, the grin on his face gone as quickly as it had appeared.

 _"I know, I was only teasing you,"_ he had told her, not apologetic whatsoever as he readjusted his glasses by pushing its temple up with his two fingers (the only way he ever did it, as she would learn later on), and introduced himself as Tsukishima Kei.

 _"Tsukishima...Kei?"_ Hitoka repeated, testing the way his name sounded with her voice before deciding that yes, she liked it – liked the way it reminded her of a peaceful summer night with the bright moon and even brighter fireflies, coaxing her into dreamland. She remembered being lost in that pretty idea for so long that he had to bring her back by clearing his throat, looking at her, expectant.

 _"Oh—! Sorry..."_ cheeks flushing even darker at her lack of manner, Hitoka averted her gaze elsewhere before continuing, voice shy and a little timid. _"My name is Yachi— Yachi...Hitoka."  
_

When she looked up again, Tsukishima Kei had already taken his place at the grand piano in their studio. From her point of view, his silhouette was half-hidden behind the Steinway’s enormous lid, but if she squinted hard enough, she could still make out the look of slight concentration on his face, tilted downward in an angle that allowed the light to reflect against his glasses, blocking his eyes from her sight.

 _"Yachi Hitoka,"_ he said and she jolted out of surprise, pressing the pair of pointe shoes close to her chest, breath hitched up by a pitch. Tsukishima Kei rolled out each syllables of her name clearly, fluently, as though he was mocking her by doing the same thing she had done earlier – testing the way it sounded with his voice, deep and soothing. Flaring at the sudden thought, Hitoka barely snapped her attention back to him when the blond spoke up again, the tiniest hint of amusement in his tone.

 _"Nice to meet you,"_ he told her, and started playing.

* * *

One of the obvious reasons why Hitoka always shows up so early – when the sun is barely peeking up from behind the horizon and the receptionist still has to stifle back a yawn when greeting her – is so that she has more time to prepare for the day. Hitoka likes being in the studio when she’s all alone and the lights are still off, when she’s in the dark and there’s no one around to involuntarily make her feel ashamed of herself, her body, her skills, her everything. It’s a stupid fear for a ballerina to have, she knows – knows it all too well when mother’s criticism is the only praise she has ever grown up on, never really learnt how to get over it. This hour of freedom before class is the only time of the day when she truly feels comfortable with herself, feels that desire to dance pulsing deep within’ her skin, her veins; loves the way she looks when her silhouette is illuminated by the first rays of sunshine that escaped through the glass on their high ceiling, painting her reflection in the mirror with flecks of rainbow, fanciful and dreamlike.

She likes to start off with a combination of stretching exercises, drawing them out nice and long until she gets sweaty and feels the tingling burn on the muscles of her legs, which lets her know that they are ready for a day full of hard work. By the time she finishes, Kei will have already come in, his coffee emptied and his backpack settled against the leg of a piano bench, slightly unzipped, but Hitoka doesn’t need to look to know the content inside: there are two or three different printed music books for when he needs ideas; another book – usually a short story, sometimes a compilation of many that he reads on the subway or at lunch break; she knows he also carries around an extra sweater nowadays, because the weather has been unpredictable lately and they never get off work until the sky is dark, the first glimpse of moonlight starts peeking through.

Kei likes to start off his warm-up with random, short little pieces that are fun and lively to the ears. According to him, they require his fingers to move faster and thus, giving him the flexibility needed. This is when Hitoka takes a small rest and settles onto watching him instead, another habit that she has picked up throughout the time they had been working together.

Tsukishima Kei is a prodigy in his own field.

Hitoka knows this from the way he sits, back straight in a tightly refined pose, doesn’t take a professional to see that he is one. His wrists are held high and relaxed, fingertips stroking the clavier, right foot hovered above a golden pedal, pressing on command. She loves the ambience that comes to life whenever he plays, fingers strumming in practiced ease across the keys, seeming to have a soul of their own as they bounced off to a staccato rhythm with power and grace. If Hitoka was granted one wish, she would wish for nothing more than to capture this moment on paper, lock it away in the deepest parts of her memories so she could treasure it without a shame - lock away the image of Tsukishima Kei by the Steinway, wrapped in a translucent veil of hazy glow from the sun that reflects against the sleek black of the curved lid, splattering its light upon his unruly curls, makes them look like golden threads. Hitoka would draw the way his eyes fluttered shut when he surrendered to the flow, would write about the way his slender fingers danced on top of the keyboard, jumped octaves and crossed onto each other to breathe life into his notes, his music.

Tsukishima Kei is a different person when he plays.

Hitoka knows some people find him hard to approach - the pianist does give off the intimidating vibe with an everlasting nonchalant expression etched onto his face; cold, amber eyes that glinted sharply whenever he catches them staring, usually because of his towering height, his distant aura that throws others off and has them deem him as unapproachable. Kei has two looks that he wears on a daily basis: one to go with his smug nature, the other for professional uses.

But no one has ever taken the time to really stop and look at him when he’s playing, not when the piano is placed so far away from where everyone practices, not when the grandiose lid always shields him from prying gazes. It’s such a shame, Hitoka thinks, because the way his eyebrows tighten only to relax after, the way his expression shifts as it waltzes along to the melody is an art in itself, wonderful and fascinating.

Being a ballet pianist is much harder of a job than anyone thinks, because there’s only a ten seconds interval max between each exercises that requires him to come up with a play fast, needs him to improvise so that the melody matches to the teacher’s counting, adjust it whenever the tempo changes: one two three, one two three. There’s hardly time to think and yet Tsukishima Kei does it so quickly, so effortlessly that Hitoka is convinced he stops thinking about anything else but the counts, the beats, the music when he plays; puts his whole concentration to it, merely like he’s just solving a difficult question. 

The talent comes to him so naturally that she can’t help but be envious sometimes. She does, but she admires him even more so that admiration drowns out the envy, replaces it with a pure wish to hear more of his play, dance to the music he creates.

* * *

Hitoka doesn’t know he watches her from behind the piano.

Or she does, but decides not to tell him for some reasons – he can never be too sure with someone like her, someone who hides the depth of her thoughts beneath a shy and demure exterior, doesn’t feel comfortable exposing herself too much. She’s insecure, he knows, has already heard of her mother’s fame, sees that pressure weighing heavily on her small shoulders. He doesn’t know if Hitoka’s aware of it or not, but in a way, they were both birds of a feather: he likes the piano and she loves ballet, but not when it was forced upon them at the tender age of six, turned into a responsibility rather than a passion. Kei is all too familiar with his talent, is reminded of it way too often whether he wants to be or not. His keen ears for music and daunting hand-to-eye coordination developed much too early, thrusting him into the world of blinding stage lights and lessons that lasted until he couldn’t sit straight, couldn’t see the notes clearly. It’s why he chose not to become a performer even when the opportunity was served on a silver plate to him, stayed away from the audience, the bother, and applied for work at a ballet company instead.

Yachi Hitoka is different.

Hitoka is what people usually call a _Townsperson B_ – she’s there and present but doesn’t stand out against the crowd, has nothing extraordinary to prove herself against those who judge a book by its cover. She comes to class two hours before it starts and is always finished with her stretching exercises by the time he arrives, always greets him with a blinding smile amidst her heavy breaths.

Yachi Hitoka loves ballet and she’s good at it, but not good enough by the standards that everyone forces onto her, expects her to reach only because her mother was once the principal dancer of the company. Kei has witnessed countless of times when her pride cracks and crumbles under the harsh criticism, seen her frail shoulders tremble and tense but remain upright, watched her pick up the broken pieces and somehow, glue them back together. On occasions, he would catch her moments before she hurriedly slipped her pointe shoes on, hiding her swollen and bandaged feet from his view.

He had thought it was stupid of her to do so. After all, wasn’t the best option would be to take a day off and rest until she could move properly again? What was the point in showing up to class if she couldn’t even dance normally, anyways? Kei didn’t understand. He didn’t want to understand why she continued ballet even though none of her efforts had turned into something worthwhile, like recognition or money. He didn’t want to understand why she continued pursuing the art that pained her physically and mentally, still stood up even after it beat her to the ground, practiced and practiced until her head was spinning from overwork.

The answer came to him one day. It was back when they first knew each other, when he hadn’t gotten used to her quiet demeanor and lack of certainty. At that point, Kei was getting frustrated with how every time he tried to match up to her pace, Hitoka would pull a swift change in the tempo and start doing a completely different combination, making him tail after her in results. The moment he got used to it, she would repeat the process all over again – and then, ended up confusing herself, tripped on her own feet and crashed onto the wooden floor.

After making sure that yes, the girl knew _he_ was the one supposed to tune himself to her and not vice versa, Kei let out an exasperated sigh, helped her up on her feet again. She’d stammer out an apology and a thanks, quickly explained how she thought he was only doing his own warm-up and not joining her in the practice, how she didn’t want to disrupt his flow.

He had stared at her then, taken aback, unsure of what to make out of her strange trail of thoughts. Whether or not she was a saint or just plain stupid, he didn’t know.

“…That’s my job,” he reminded her and eyed the way she shifted back and forth from standing tiptoe on one foot to another, stretching her ankles. “I’m getting paid to do it, so I would appreciate it if you kindly let me do my job.”

For a second, Hitoka seemed startled at his straightforwardness – which he expected, so no surprise there. What was, however, was the way her gaze softened and averted to the side, the hesitance in her timid voice when she asked:

"Tsukishima-san, do you love playing the piano?" _  
_

He halted, throat went dry at the question. Did he love playing the piano? Love how smooth and silky those keys glided underneath his fingertips, the way they sprung to notes under his touch, resonating around the room? Love the emotions he was able to channel into the music, conveying it through melodies, felt the satisfaction coursing through his veins upon finishing a difficult piece?

Luckily, Hitoka didn’t require him to answer right away. She gazed at him with a knowing look and leaned against the barre, proceeded to do a round of plie to keep her body warm. “Ah – sorry, Tsukishima-san. It’s a stupid question. Of course you do, I can see it from the way you play,” she said, chuckling nervously as she sunk to the ground and sprung up again, repeated the movements a few times.

From the way…he played?

Did he love it?

What nonsense was she sprouting?

“You feel it too, don’t you?” Hitoka asked, soft and quiet by her nature and Kei snapped his attention back to her, partly because he didn’t want to be rude, partly because he didn’t need the thoughts that her innocent question brought. “…The equilibrium?” she shifted to the side and stood straight, tilted her head so she could look into his eyes, “No matter how difficult it gets, how exciting it can be, there’s always– there’s always that moment of serenity when you’re at the peak,” Hitoka lifted a hand up, reached towards the ceiling as though to describe her point and Kei couldn’t help but let his eyes follow it, transfixed on the way her fingers curled.

“…When you feel like this – _this is it_. _**This**_ is what you're meant to do.”

Her hand retreated and Hitoka turned to face the mirror again, guiding his gaze with hers until they were both staring at their reflections.

"I love ballet," she told him, honest and sincere even though she wasn’t looking at him directly, but strange enough, he could feel it being spoken from her heart. He could feel his own thumping in response, bursting behind its cage.

 _"That's why...I'll keep doing it. Until my feet no longer allow me to, until I can no longer hear the sound of the piano."_ _  
_

* * *

Hitoka doesn’t know he watches her from behind the piano.

Hitoka doesn’t know how he tunes out everyone else from his vision when it’s her turn for a solo performance at the end of each class, how she’s the only reason he starts playing with a purpose again, a purpose that bears her name.

He’s biased but he thinks it’s a crime how she never gets the recognition she deserves (he won’t admit that to her, though, because Hitoka would think of it as pity and she hated being pitied, hated being so weak). He doesn’t understand how can possibly be difficult for others to see what he sees when she’s standing in the middle of the studio, small and nervous and shy at the attention but never backing down. She seems to shrink a little but sucks in a deep breath and strengthens her resolve again when he starts to play. Kei breaks into his own improvised rendition of _Lovin’ You_ by Minnie Riperton, a classic that he knows all too well, doesn’t have to tear his gaze away from her performance to look at the keyboard.

Yachi Hitoka is beautiful in her long-sleeved, black leotard and pink tights, matching pink pointe shoes, its ribbons weaved up to her thin ankles; her golden hair is pulled back in an uptight bun, which he knows she spends at least thirty minutes in the morning to make sure no strands would drift astray mid-performance. The efforts are well paid off, he thinks, looking at the way she cranes her elegant neck – a must for all ballerinas – towards the direction of her extended arms, knees bent as she does a demi plie, then springs back up again, rising on the very tips of her toes to gracefully do a full spin. Kei picks up the tempo with his song, makes it sound more flowy, more jazzed up as she follows suit, launching into a chaine pirouettes across the floor and at the final, ringing note, lifts herself off, kicks a leg up straight behind her to do a saute arabesque before she lands in that same position: en-pointe, swift, beautiful and ethereal.

Her classmates applaud and as the teacher puts closure on their class, Hitoka beams at him from across the room, red and sweaty and chest heaving with ragged breaths, but that doesn’t make her any less beautiful in his eyes.

* * *

“Sorry for keeping you waiting, Kei _—_!” Hitoka calls out as she rushes in a flurry of petite frame and bag-too-big-for-it towards him, who has been waiting by the entrance of the building for solely ten minutes. Having seen the outcome of her clumsiness, Kei quickly holds out an arm just as she launches herself forward and crashes into it, wrapping tightly around her shoulders to keep her in place.

“I told you, you don’t have to rush,” he tells her, remaining still as she fixes her posture, sends an apologetic smile his way. He offers to hold her backpack but as always, Hitoka declines and they start walking towards the direction of the subway.

The sky has faded into a mixture of blue and purple above their heads, stripes of white clouds unhurriedly drifting by – it won’t be too long before the moon comes out, proud and bright at this time of the month, lightening their paths home. They stop by a newly opened crepes stand along the way and buy two portions – strawberry for Kei, blueberry for Hitoka, both with freshly whipped cream.

“You know, I drop by our apartment the other day,” Hitoka says, swallowing down her test bite of the crepe and raises her hand up so that Kei can have a taste as well. The pianist, who has his arm linked around her smaller one, bent his head down to take a bite while doing the same thing to Hitoka, letting her try out his favorite. “They say the renovation should finish in a couple of days.”

“That’s good,” he tells her after having finished his bite, savors the taste of sweet and sour fruits jam lingering on his tongue. A spring breeze blows past them, cool and blissful as it slips through the short strands of his hair, tangles a few of her own that have gone astray. She lifts a hand up to tuck them behind her ears, unknowingly drawing Kei’s attention with her.

Hitoka looks pretty in her ballet costumes, but Kei thinks she looks even prettier when she’s all relaxed and comfortable in their matching hoodies, in her mismatched sneakers and messy bun with blue stars clipping it together. Her skin is flushing healthily from a long day of dancing, cheeks puffed out as she squints to inspect the colorful letters on the crepe’s wrap, a sliver of whipped cream staining the corner of her mouth.

“Hey, Hitoka,” he calls, making her turn towards him, “…you have something here.”

The petite blonde tilts her head curiously, wiping at her mouth with a finger. “Is it gone now?”

“No,” Kei shakes his head, “…Let me get it. Hold still,” his hands slide up to cup her tiny face, fitting perfectly in his palms. Hitoka cranes her neck to look up at him, doe eyes large and blinking curiously, unaware of his intentions. She looks so naïve, he thinks, so trustingly innocent that he almost feels bad, but at times, he really, really can’t help himself. Despite the refined demeanor he wears, Kei is capable of letting his control slips every now and then.

Besides, he knows she doesn’t mind, can already envision the kind of reaction he can elicit from her, so he leans down and does just that – letting his control slip.

Yachi Hitoka is soft and pliant under his touch as he brushes the rebellious strands of her bangs away from obscuring her pretty face, flushing in his palm. Obediently, her eyes drift shut while she leans into the affection and inches just a little closer to relish in his warmth, trembling in anticipation. Kei pushes his glasses up to his head and his gaze lowers, drinking in the way the evening glow drapes over her, makes her look beautiful and surreal, otherworldly. He whispers her name as his thumb wipes the dollop of cream the dessert has left in its wake, and she softly exhales in reply. One of his hands sneaks around her waist, settling on the small of her back to keep her standing as she melts in his embrace, his hold, the gentle manner in which he tilts her head with his other hand at just the right angle so that it’d be comfortable for the both of them.

“Did you get it…?” Hitoka whispers when they pull apart, voice shaky and muffled by the material of his hoodie. At this proximity, she can hear his heartbeat pulsing through his chest, rhythmic like the tunes he syncs to her dances.

“Yes,” he tells her, pulls her closer and exhales in the chilliness of the evening, content.


End file.
